


Floodlights

by unscriptedemily



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Drabble Collection, Drabbles, Fluff, M/M, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 10:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4560426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unscriptedemily/pseuds/unscriptedemily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles on the theme of rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Floodlights

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all I am currently babysitting ! wow! there is a dog asleep on my leg!   
> anyway it's raining REALLY HEAVILY outside right now, so...inspiration lmao. I call these drabbles but actually, only two of them really count as drabbles. Funnily enough, they go from short, medium-length, to long-ish, in order.   
> These aren't connected or part of a bigger story or anything. Enjoy ;u;  
> (p.s. sorry for any mistakes, these are unedited)

 

Ed, soaking wet, hair plastered to his scalp, rain running down his cheeks like tears but he’s _grinning_ , shaking the water from him like a dog and dripping all over Roy’s carpet. Roy closes the door behind him, shutting out the cold and Central’s streets (orange streetlights reflecting off the glistening road reminds him of Ed’s eyes when they catch and keep the firelight) and he launches himself forwards, tightening his arms around Roy’s chest, burying his wet head into Roy’s shirt. They laugh together, Roy pretending to be mad but in the end he can’t keep it up; they tumble onto the couch, both sopping, raindrops still falling from Ed’s eyelashes like tiny crystals; here the light is warm and deep and Roy _should_ be angry but with Ed’s arms around him, the automail freezing through his thin shirt, he can’t bring himself to be.

 

***

 

It’s bucketing it down outside. The weather forecast said clouds and sunny spells, but Roy’s long since learnt not to trust anything they say.

“Weather alchemy,” says Ed, turning a page of his book, “I should just go outside and _force_ it to be summer already.”

Roy smiles at him over his shoulder, palm pressed flat against the frigid windowpane.

“I don’t think the meteorology department would thank you for that,” he says, and Ed looks up at him, eyes bright despite the gloom outside.

“I dunno,” he says, “maybe they’d be pleased to have someone who actually knows what they’re doing on the team.”

Roy laughs, turns his back to the downpour and leans against the kitchen counter. Ed, sitting on the table as though it’s the most comfortable chair in the world, grins back at him.

“’Sides,” he says, grin turning teasing with just the _edge_ of teeth, “you’re fuckin’ useless when it’s wet; I’m sure it’d be better for everyone if the weather moved on already-,”

Roy kisses him to make him stop talking, and Ed fights back for a second before melting into it, wrapping his arms around Roy’s neck and his legs around Roy’s waist, biting his lower lip softly.

“Damn, Roy,” he breathes against his mouth, wriggling closer, and Roy smiles back, the rain outside filling up the silence and thrumming in time with his heart, “if this is what I get every time it rains, maybe I _shouldn’t_ learn weather alchemy.”

“Glad you agree, love,” says Roy, and they kiss again, soft and warm and pliable, the gold of Ed’s eyes drawing him in, away from the grey sheets of the sky outside.

 

***

Thunderstorms are always tricky when it comes to Ed. On the one hand, the sheer crackle of the energy through the air makes him feel powerful, fills him to the brim with alchemical sparks, arrays flickering through his mind like fish darting through water- but on the other, the automail never reacts well to extreme weather. The cold and the wet make the ports ache, and if the water worms it’s way inside the casing, he’s done for. Even the static electricity in the air makes his nerves feel frazzled, tender, although Ed isn’t sure how much of that is purely psychological.

Still, he’s scribbling arrays at the speed of light; handing them to Al to check over and correct, painstakingly careful as he adjusts symbols and adds lines. The lab they’re renting is small; with all the glass test-tube towers and stacks of conical flasks make it all the more cramped. Ed’s corner is littered with scraps of paper, mountains of books; ink splatters the floor and he sighs, thunking his head back against the wall, massaging his wrist with the automail.

“Brother?” asks Al, over on the side of the room- typically, his workspace is the epitome of tidiness, and Ed scowls a little more at the sight of the neat piles of paper, staring hard at a small stain on the ceiling.

“What?”

Al shifts; Ed hears the small scrape as two of his metal plates slide over each other.

“Is something wrong?”

_Wrong? No way._

“Apart from the automail, I mean,” Al’s voice is hesitant and Ed stares even harder at the discolouration on the ceiling tiles. What could’ve caused that? An experiment gone awry? Damp leaking through from the room above?

“Brother?”

“Everything’s fine, Al,” says Ed, snapping his attention back to the rows of calculations in front of him, scratching a hand through his hair. “’S just my shoulder port playing up again.”

“Maybe we should go see Winry about it,” The relief in Al’s voice is palpable. Ed nods.

“Sure, maybe.”

Silence falls again, punctuated by the distant rumbles of thunder. Occasionally the room brightens fractionally as lightning flashes outside the window and Ed’s automail twinges.

That’s not the real problem, though- he’s dealt with this shit and worse before. The real problem is that he’s _here_ , in this lab, on a Saturday, when he could be two miles away having his shoulder massaged, hair sticking to him in the bathwater, curls of steam rising up and gathering above them and Roy kneads his aching limbs.

Ed blinks, focuses on the numbers again but they’re all blurring together, now. His mind keeps getting drawn back to Roy, Roy’s house- it’s always warm there, not like in here, where draughts pass under the door and make him shiver and scowl; Roy always has a big fire going in the hearth, even in the summer- which is ridiculous, and Ed’s told him so, probably in as many words. In Roy’s house, there’s coffee, really _good_ coffee, and hot chocolate, if he wants it, which he nearly always does. And there’s a bath, of course, which is big enough for both of them, and they can splash each other while Roy pretends he’s far too mature for that sort of thing.

And the rain beats at the windows but they don’t let it in, him and Roy, because they’re too busy exploring each other, inside and out, kissing and touching and memorising each and every part of each other; too busy learning each other’s flaws and whispering promises into each other’s skin-

Al makes another scraping noise on the other side of the room and Ed blinks again, shakes his head a little. No. No Roy, he tells himself sternly, because you’re _not_ there. You’re here. No matter how much you wish you weren’t.

 And this is for Al, after all, so he looks back down at the rows of numbers and this time he _forces_ himself to concentrate. Blows out a long breath, clears his unfocused eyes. Right. Work.

….But, god, he wishes Roy were here, if only to stop his automail from aching _so damn much_.

 


End file.
